


Heartfelt Conversations

by toushindai (WallofIllusion)



Category: Baccano!
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:33:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,634
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5359559
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WallofIllusion/pseuds/toushindai
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s by a slow, gradual process that Chane realizes just how precisely Claire can read her mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartfelt Conversations

It’s by a slow, gradual process that Chane realizes just how precisely Claire can read her mind.

She thinks—she has to believe—that it starts with guesses. It’s not surprising that he can read wariness on a face like hers, not when she is mostly wariness, and especially around him. It’s not surprising that he knows to keep reassuring her: _I won’t hurt your father. I have nothing against your father. I’ll protect your father with you, if you’ll let me._

She used to flinch at that last one, and he used to back off: _If you don’t want me to, I won’t. I know you can do it on your own, Chane._

The way he says her name is different from the Lemures did. And it’s different from how Huey always has, too.

*

She doesn’t mean to open up to him. She’s watched him fight, so she knows: there’s probably nothing that’s impossible for him. She hasn’t forgotten his battle with that white suit, or the way he forced the white suit off the train by endangering his beloved. Thank god her father has no weak points that he could manipulate in the same way. If Claire is hoping to eventually turn against Huey by endangering Chane, he’ll find his trap shattered the instant he tries to spring it, because Huey won’t care. Chane is glad of this, that she cannot be used against her father.

She has to think that part of her interprets this as being “safe,” and that’s why her guard begins to soften.

But she knows, too—she doesn’t want to know, she doesn’t want to feel so unshakably certain, she doesn’t want to believe this with her whole heart—she knows that he really, honestly, truly means no harm to her father. He’s so devoid of deception that she can’t breathe when she looks into his eyes, sometimes. She doesn’t understand, and it terrifies her.

And her fear is so enormous that it feels only natural that he can see that on her face. _Don’t be scared, Chane_ , he says then, and offers his arms. _I love you._

She does not enter the embrace immediately.

 _I know_ , he agrees with her unvoiced suspicion. _The love itself is so huge that it’s terrifying. I feel the same way. I don’t know how to cope with something so big. But I’m strong, and nothing can hurt me. You’re the same way. So let’s see where this takes us, together._

 _We’re safe_ , he says, and he’s just verbalizing the tiny voice in the back of her mind that is already saying the same thing—a constant, soothing refrain that she tries not to hear.

*

They start to have conversations.

At first, Chane doesn’t realize they’re proper conversations. Claire asks her where she’d like to go for dinner and she flips through the newspaper, searching for the ad of her favorite restaurant: of course he can understand that. The next time, when he says what’s on her mind before she reaches the right page, it’s easy to chalk it up to a lucky guess, or to his remembering what ads were in the morning paper. The time after that, when she turns to him with a furrowed brow, it’s not surprising that he guesses that she wants him to choose a restaurant instead.

It’s only when she lies in bed at the Genoard mansion later, recalling all of this, that she realizes he’s never been wrong.

Not once.

Not one single time.

She traces and retraces her memories, reaching the same conclusion each time, and her heart begins to pound. The next day, they meet in the park for a walk, and Chane is more aware of the knives strapped to her leg than usual.

He chatters to begin with, as he always does, but soon stops. “Chane, is everything okay?”

She looks at him out of the corner of her eye only.

“Why do I ask? Well, you seem really closed off today. It’s like I can hear you saying ‘don’t, don’t, don’t’ under your breath. I mean, you’re not speaking, so it’s not really under your breath… I guess it’s like an undercurrent?”

Chane feels her heart stop. In an instant, she has a knife in hand. Claire dodges her first swing with an acrobatic grace and hops a few steps backwards.

“Did I upset you?” he asks, his hands held up placatingly and his brow furrowed in genuine (it can’t be genuine, it mustn’t be genuine, it _is_ genuine) concern. “If I did, I’m sorry. I’m really sorry, Chane. Only I can’t tell what I did because I’m still just getting that litany of ‘don’t.’ I can’t even tell what it is you don’t want me to do.”

Chane makes her face blank. It’s blank, she knows that it is. But she can tell that Claire is still trying to read her, and the same fear as last night surfaces in her mind: that he’ll see in her eyes all the secrets that Huey has given her to protect. The secrets that she gave up her voice for. Her fear is a lump in her throat and to camouflage it she dashes forward and brings the knife down again. She’s not surprised that it connects with nothing, that Claire has dodged it easily. Nor is she surprised that her attack is _not_ answered with a tight grip on her wrist. She’s been in plenty of fights; she knows their rhythm, can anticipate what should be the next obvious step. But Claire will not counterattack. She’s confusingly certain of that.

She has a knife in each hand now, and Claire dodges her attacks like he’s dancing.

“Do you want to kill me?”

A wide arc with her left hand.

“Did Huey ask you to kill me? It’s okay if he did. We can still keep loving each other while you do.”

A quick stab with the right hand into a space he no longer inhabits. _No!!_

“Oh, good.”

It’s only when he sighs in relief that Chane realizes that she answered his question. That she _wanted_ to answer his question. He’s behind her for a moment and she whirls, trying to catch him off-guard, but her blade whistles through empty air.

“Chane,” he says as she stands poised for a moment, trying to catch her breath, trying to find the strategy that will end the threat he poses. “I think I’ve scared you. I’m sorry.”

He’s read that on her, too. Her breath snags in her throat and she lunges forward again. He slips under her arm and to her left, but stays out of her blind spot.

“Yeah, it’s obvious in your eyes. …Is that what’s scaring you?”

Another swing of the knife. This time he only bends backwards in place, which she predicted; she brings her other knife towards his legs sharply before he can straighten. But he only does a backflip and rights himself.

“I see,” he says. He’s not winded. “I get it now, Chane. There’s nothing to worry about, okay?”

_Why are his eyes so honest?_

“They’re honest because I’m honest. I’m not lying to you. You’re scared that I’m reading your mind, right? That I’ll read something there that I mustn’t know. That you can’t let me know. But that isn’t how this works.”

One more time, she lunges forward, and this time he doesn’t move at all. He lets her set the knife against his throat and the love (it can’t be love, _stop_ , she can’t believe it’s love but it is love) in his eyes never wavers.

“I’m not reading your mind, Chane. I’m listening to your heart.”

_That’s nonsense._

“Maybe so. But nothing’s impossible for me. If I want to hear what you have to say to me, I’ll hear it, and nothing extra. I want to hear your heart, Chane, and I don’t want to break you. Because I love you.”

The knife is a hair from his throat. It would take only the tiniest twitch of her wrist to nick his skin. She knows why she doesn’t want to, but that doesn’t mean she can’t or won’t do it.

“I know that’s terrifying to believe,” he says, his voice low and earnest. “If it’s too much, you don’t have to believe it. I like being your friend for now, too. I like going to lunch together and spending time with you and dodging those awesome knife attacks of yours. You can believe all that, right?”

Her heart is pounding with something that isn’t exertion.

She’s believed all of that that for months now, and that he loves her besides; she has no choice but to believe it. He makes it abundantly clear. She can see it in _his_ eyes, and in the trust he has now when she could slit his throat as easily as breathing. But she doesn’t want to slit his throat. She knows it isn’t necessary. This man, this infuriating, impossible man who has baffled everything she’s ever held to be solid and real—she trusts him, and knows that she’s right to do so, and what she really wants—

She catches her breath in realization, and his eyebrows go up in genuine surprise. “Really?”

She swallows, but she doesn’t look away from him. _Really?_ , she asks herself, and the answer is _yes._

“Are you sure?”

A tiny nod.

“Do you want to lower your knife first?”

A shake of her head, a little more obvious.

“Haha, okay. That’s fine, Chane.” His hand comes up to her face, calloused and yet delicately gentle as his thumb traces her jawline. “That’s exactly how I want this to be, too.”

And then he leans in, and they share their first kiss over the blade of Chane’s knife.


End file.
